On my way to work, I felt the ball of depression in my gut. I have been working on it, squeezing it and trying to find the knotty centre of it in order to start solving it and putting it into order. As yet I have failed to make progress. The previous week of green helped me forget, but now it's back. I tried to take in the beauty of Seville, that helps quite a bit. I imagine depression in a less beautiful city must be quite a bit more challenging.
Then there's work. Teaching teens and adults always help me to put my game face on. I don't know if that is healthy or not, but I feel that it does help. At least it is good practice to put feelings in their place and not to let them be the driver of my car.
Then my phone pinged. It was a message from her.
"Can I call later? It's about the dogs."
Fuck.
All the processing and putting into order my thoughts and feelings undone with nine words.
I miss my fucking dogs so fucking much. I miss that when I cook meat or open a can of tune or even my morning yoghurt for breakfast, there aren't four begging dogs reminding me that they're the best of dogs and well deserving of a treat.
I also miss her. I am trying very hard not to, but fuck it, close on two decades with the same person kinda makes things stick.
I still love her. That is the hardest part of this all. I wish I could just erase 2021 and go back to what it was. Even though it was to be honest. It was Mary Jane helping me to bury my head in the sand and pretend everything is ok.
I had to put my head down and slog through work. Smiley face plastered on, cool, let's pretend everything is ok. Finally 21:30 comes and I head home, dreading the phone call coming at 22:00.
I change out of my work clothes, pour myself some water, do some dishes, and wait.
21:55 my phone rings. It's her. God I've missed her voice. The worst of it is how sad she is. The strings get pulled, tugging my heart sad. I cannot break down. I must not be weak. I need to be strong for the sake of progress, but god fucking dammit, it is not easy.
None of this is.
Words were spoken, feelings expressed, regret shared. Yet still there is no resolution. I have no idea if resolution can be found.
So now it is Tuesday. Another day to power through. Another day to process feelings that I am so incapable of healthily processing. But fuck it, one foot forward and then the next. The only option is the final sleep from which we never wake.
